The Silence of the Lake

The shore of Superior,
  for length of the day,
  is continual clamor,
  an ongoing bray,
    a distant crowd singing
    in words that are muddled
      a beating of drums
      from the waves closely huddled,
        crashing, receding
        and rushing back in
        one on another,
        perpetual din.

Silence becomes, not
  the absence of sound,
  but aural consistency
  heard all around,
    so much a part
    of each second and hour
    that sound becomes silence,
    its absence...  a roar.

My Boy this Morning (at 13 months)

I took my boy out in the rain.
He sat on rocks and let them fly
Or rather dropped them from his hand;
It doesn't mean he didn't try.
A droplet hit his blondish hair
And made a splat that gave him pause
"What's this that's cool and... oh what's that?"
A question's worth more than 'because.'

A Cheer

My wife hates football.
Yes it's true.
She's in a fantasy league.
How 'bout you?

-----------------------------------

Perhaps even lamer than usual, but I wanted to mark the occasion of my wife entering a fantasy football league with a cheer because I love football.  My question, "How will hatred and participation co-exist?"  We'll see.  Ultimately it's not important because neither depends on the Packers winning the Super Bowl again.

Shopping

While up north in Ely
My dear wife and I
Went looking through windows
And sometimes passed by,
But other times went we
On into the stores
And stayed past the point
When started my snores.

I love my wife dearly
And so want to help,
But shopping's so boring.
I'd rather snort kelp.
So many sizes and colors and styles
The bothersome choices go on for five miles!
(Not so with my patience,
It goes without saying.)
This store's got two levels,
I'm sure we'll be staying.

A Nirvana Limerick

I hear grungy singing is waning.
The younsters are flat out complaining.
    "That music is old;
      It leaves us quite cold."
This marks the clear end of Cobaining.

Death: The Ultimate Writer's Block

Flannery O'Connor's already a goner
And F. Scott Fitzgerald is dead.
If E. Hemmingway were alive today
I wonder what he would have said?
But just like the others he's lost all his druthers
And hasn't a new word to throw.
That is the trouble; we all turn to rubble.
Just ask ol' Henry Thoreau.

Fall Lake in August

The fall in the river,

     there in the twilight,

     as aspen leaves danced

          in the last light of day,

Conjured a magic

     by virtue of beauty

     and sonorous laughter

          so playful and gay.

While there with my dearest

     we scrambled on pathways

     and crawled upon boulders

          with little to say,

But just our enchantment

     at being together

     and watching the sunset

          while lost in our play.

Prose!

I went on vacation with my wife.  We were up on Lake Superior with the baby boy and two of my in-laws.  As a side note, saying that someone is an in-law sounds so cold.  I don't mean it that way; I'm just being descriptive.  At any rate, they went home, taking the boy, and my wife and I continued to a little town up by the Boundary Waters.  We walked and shopped and ate and hiked and slept in.  And we read books.  And I bought a swanky book and wrote poetry.  And we also went to a concert.  That's what yesterday's poem is about.  This fellow was pretty good, but there were only 8 of us there in the audience.  Later, a few more people came, but I felt bad for him.  We decided to come home a day early because we missed our baby.  On the way back we stopped for a doughnut and accidentally bought a walnut credenza.  True story.  It was a steal.  Alrighty then, that's enough prose for this year.

The Performer

Is it silly
     to feel sorry
          for the fellow
               on the stage?

There he's playing
     -while we're looking-
          like a monkey
               in a cage.

Boy and Father by the Lake

I took the boy upon the rocks
Not far from chilly waves.
He squirmed like larva to get free;
I prepped to make some saves.
He walked and crawled with clear delight
My boy, he loves to potter.
And frequently I lunged to save
My boy from cruel, cold water.

A Superior Poem? (or just a pun)

On the cusp of vacation or already in?

I'm not sure exactly when this thing begins.

The work is all over, of that I am sure,

But I'm not yet relaxing, stretched out on the shore.

Clarity's coming and sloth in its wake

Out on a chaise-lounge aside of the lake.

Excerpt from an EPIC Poem about our new van (if we buy it)

Soaring through the night air on eagle's wings,
Shooting with missiles all evil things,
Decked out like a gangsta with various blings,
Oh mini-van, you are The Very Thing.

If I weren't married, I'd give you a ring.
C'mon everyone, lift your voice and sing!
Oh mini-van, you are The Very Thing.

-----------------------------------

I asked my wife what I should write a poem about this morning and she said, "the van."  You see, my wife and I are hoping to buy a pretty snazzy mini-van to fit our family needs and make our lives happier and more fulfilled.

A Truism (Garfield nothwithstanding)

Cat ladies have cats;
This goes without saying.
But very few rats,
'Cause cats are dismaying.

Math

Two ninety six
Plus seven eleven
Equals one thousand
And also a seven.
Try as you might
To argue against,
The laws of mathematics
Have sure got you fenced.

A Recollection

I remember buying a rubber band gun,
One trip, when we went out West.
Shapely, like a Colt 45,  just the thing
To occupy a boy's interest.
The two barrels didn't get pointed too much
At my sister, not as I recall.
Which is a wonder, in a way!
Because I was sometimes awful,
Teasing her to get a squawk.
Instead I pointed at the unmoving:
Trees, signs and the odd rock,
Off which there were plenty
Along those highways going up
Stretching towards the Rockies,
And on over the top.

Weed

I play in the garden.
I pull out a weed.
Then I go away
For to buy what I need.
Then when I return
I find that some seed
Has grown up again
Into a great weed.
Alas and alack!
I'm not driven by greed!
I just want a garden
That is missing a weed.

Limerick on the Importance of Not Getting Playing Cards Greasy (a hypothetical poem)

If Pringles were sold in a bag
And came with a stylish rag,
I'd eat all the shards,
But before playing cards,
Wipe my hands on that rag that were swag.

The Angry Shoulder

The angry shoulder twists me 'round
And hits me in the gut.
It's like a man who sees a dog
And kicks that mangy mutt.

"Your pretty pills, they make me laugh,"
My angry shoulder growls.
Punching harder with a scowl
While I let slip some howls.

Thoughts on My Young Son Finding a Lady (in the wake of a bad case of bed face.)

My baby has just come to me
The marks of bed on face,
And I'm not talkin' just a hint
Or just a little trace.
Indentations, deeply grooved,
Impermanent I hope!
Or getting girls will be a chore,
He'd prob'ly need a rope.

A Poem About Food (starring the letter W)

When waffles kill and maim and steal
The whole world wonders what to do.
Whether better just to wail
Or whack the waffles into goo?
While wayward food will often test,
By forcing on us witch's brew,
We needn't roll to its request,
Lest we make choices we will rue.

The Low Jump

I do have standards,
Though they're low.
Somewhere south
Of Mexico.
Verses made
That smell like toe.
Smelly bad!
I know, I know.

The Honey Badger

We had friends who came to visit us the other weekend and they shared with us a Youtube video about the Honey Badger (as narrated by a fellow named Randall.)  The language was foul, but we laughed because the Honey Badger was such a character.  And so here is an ode based on the video.

Honey Badger, you're so soft,
Warm and cuddly all around.
When you see a snake aloft
You climb up and throw him down.
Then you eat him for your lunch,
Though he bite and make you nap.
Lovingly (well, that's my hunch)
You don't really give a crap.

A Fatherhood Limerick

There is a young baby named B
Who's always lookin' at me.
"Dad, can we play?
Or read stories today?"
If you said that I'm blessed, I'd agree!

The Changing Color

The color of the rolling hills
Is changing as the seasons pass.
The stalks of corn which once were green
Are joined by gold;
Emerging tassels all throughout
Are dappling vistas with their hue.
With wonder giv'n by God above
I soak it in.
What wondrous love it is to give
Such beauty to his sons below.
How glorious to make such art
Provision's field.
A glorious yield.

4 Verses on UGs

If I had a cattle prod
I would leave cattle alone
And go after bugs.

If I had a jar of salt
I would flavor my eggs
And go after slugs.

If I were a dirty hippie
I'd laugh nervously
And go back to my drugs.

But, better than these,
I'll wait for my wife to return
And give her hugs.

The Dodge Stratus

The Strat is flying low these days
Caught up in rusty, cracked malaise,
Stumbling blindly through a haze
And all the while I'm hoping,...

Hoping that the tires hold,
Looking past the carpet mold
Praying, "Please, I know its old,
But maybe it's a phase?"

Debit cards and dollar bills
Can cure the aches and fix the ills.
"Pay up Bub, for auto pills."
Alas, alack, oh heck.

"Here's the money, take it all
While you fix it I'll just crawl.
I should buy an auto pall!
Alas, alack, oh heck."

Alvin

On hearing the news

That his death was upon him

The man grinned a grin

And his eyes told a tale.

"This life's gotten hard,

In its myriad facets

I find myself fumbling

And ready to fail.

I love my wife dearly;

I'm happy to visit; 

My Lord is a-comin';

I hope you don't mind

But soon I'll be boarding

The train bound for glory.

Thanks much for your visits

You've really been kind."

Next week he was napping

And soon after sleeping

And then he was lying;

The twinkle was gone.

And so was dear Alvin;

His lifetime was ended.

His future beginning,

Eternity won.

Beware the Cat (A Fake Tale of Feline Brutality)

I saw a sleeping cat once
Back when I was a child.
My limbs all started tremblin'
For kitty cat was wild.
When given the occasion
He'd grab his pound of flesh
In slashy little increments
And make my skin like mesh.
It paid to show some caution
And tread with feather care
Or better yet, to stay quite still
In hopes that I'd be spared.

Sleeping Dogs

When doggies lie,
Their eyelids closed,
It's best to keep
Yourself composed
And treading lightly
Lest you cause
The waking dog
To use his claws!

The Two Paintings

Over my bed at home there are two paintings,
Both of churches in the old country.

One sits on a bluff, guarded by a wall
It has an onion top and one belfry.
Obviously Orthodox, maybe monastic.
The subject tugs at me, but is no expert's pick
For it is rudely done.  In a hurry?
For sale in new Russia, after the fall?

The other is all whimsy and fun,
Lovers kissing by the Seine.
Pont de Neuf stands guard nearby,
With Notre Dame back by the sky.

I love them both; they stir my mind,
Framed dreaming of a different time.

Just Outside My Window

Have you ever heard an ill wind blow?
Or seen a field of firefly glow?
Last night I did, those very two
The latter glowed, the first then blew.
I count it good that in between
The glowing insects went to bed
And while the bluster raged and stormed
Were sleeping quietly instead.

For Want of Breakfast

Hopping birds
Diving beaks
Tater soup
With tasty leeks
Battered eggs
Oh so meek
These are things
That creatures seek

Wonder

In the wee and small hour,
Lights more or less dampened,
I sit and I wonder
On all that has happened.
Crescendos and codas
And turning of pages,
Rebuking of demons,
And chit chat with sages;
A whirlwind of meaning
Surpassing all wonder
In lover and baby
And lightning and thunder,
Two churches with people
With hopes for the 'morrow,
Weddings and funerals,
Joy... and sorrow.
Good God, you're amazing
I'd never have dreamed this
The things you've accomplished
Beyond all my wishes.

Explicit Unpoem #1

Lousy poets take thoughts and hit the "enter" key at opportune moments to create the illusion of a poem where no poem exists.  It's actually just rambling thought with neither rhyme nor discernible structure, nor even words chosen to complement each other and express something further than the sum of them.  It's just a cheap imitation that deserves your scorn!  And so I give you an Unpoem:

In the wee hours
I find the time
To let my mind wander
Over things that have passed,
Things that I've spurned
And put in their places!

But they don't threaten
Like they used to do.
They seem rather silly
And toothless.

I don't know that we should allow ourselves foolishness
As some kind of birthright.
After all, foolishness maims, kills and destroys.
But some of us survive.
And as the carnage recedes
It all seems such a spectacle.

Shine On...

The Crazy Diamond fell down dead,
Acid got him, though he fled.
No one's shining in his stead.
What a wretched waste.

Poetic noodling, siren songs
Selling meaning to the throngs,
Skewing right things into wrongs.
What a wretched waste.

Happy 4th of July

I am an Iowawegian poet,
Iowegian poet do or die.
A real life rhymer from the state of corn,
Lousy(!) I'm not gonna lie.
I like to hear disapprobation,
Helps me know the world is sane.
Lousy poets step right up and pen a verse for freedom
"Hey y'all, Happy 4th of July!"

A verse for freedom?  What kind of cockamamie thing is that?  And why would "Happy 4th of July" qualify?  Well, you're not going to get an essay out of me either, so I'll just say, "Here's to our founding ideals, may God help us pursue them, and may we show a bit of mercy to each other as we go along.

Gettin' Bossy with the Garden

In the garden, dry and dusty,

Weed infested, blown by gusty

Winds from western prairie state,

There I stepped, demeanor: "crusty."

"Take this hose to change your fate;

Drink the water.  Thirst, abate!

Never mind if it be rusty.

Drink!  You dirt field.  Drink!  Don't wait.

Three Cantankerous Couplets for Consideration

Confronted by potholes and litter

My father in law became bitter.

The station was hopelessly dirty,

Th' attendants were both far from purty.

This tale has no moral or ending

Nor odor that might be offending.

An Ode

Potato chip,

You're lovely beyond words:
Soft, undulating ridges,
Beautiful gold skin,
Delicate as a china doll.
Will you be mine?

W.B.

Die-ku

One crawling spider
One sink defended by me
One flattened spider

Three Related Thoughts

Corn rustles.
It really does, I've heard it.
But I've never heard of corn rustlers.

The long, tall grass waves.
I look out the window and see it.
But it never comes crashing into anything.

Those clouds over there float.
But I can assure you, in all seriousness,
That there isn't even a scoop of ice cream up there.

To Have Grown and Shaved Is Better Than Never to Have Grown At All

I shaved my rockin' Amish beard;
I shaved it for my wife.
I'd hate for any facial hair
To cause domestic strife.
My love for her reigns high above
Such trivialities,
But surely I will try again
My beard festivities!

Beard

I grew a rockin' Amish beard

To impress my wife,

Who now, alas, thinks I'm weird.

She jeered

And said she feared 

I'd keep it.

Sigh.

Free Kitten!

Anybody wanna kitten?
Something feline for your house?
Little girls would all be smitten!
Maybe less, the family mouse.
Take one home and feed her tuna.
Give her love and make her purr.
Soon she'll be the big kahuna;
You, the stroker of her fur.

Talk to John.  He's got kittens!

Ow!

No salsa, no chips?
Apocalypse Now!
Almost as bad
As world without cow.
Much must be done
To restore the wow.
Like finding more chips.
And salsa.  And how!

Rain

Gentle, soaking rain
Falling on the swollen fields
Puddles on the grain
Washing, drowning, future yields
Filled up riverbeds
Flowing down to wreck and steal
Slow disaster creeps
Curs-ed rain with no appeal.

The Run On Sentence

At the service today
Because we wanted to
Confide in friends -
During the announcements and with great
Enthusiasm
For the topic at hand (for we are
Greatly taken by it!),
Having hardly thought of the exact words,
I told the congregation,
Jesus followers all, that
Kris Kringle would be
Leaving a present for us,
Making me,
Newly a father, a father again!
Oh my!
Praise God!

The Fields

On verdant fields in Ioway
The brown of seasons past has gone,
Or, rather, covered by the corn,
A swath of green has now been born.
The seeds were scattered in the soil
By tractor's path and farmer's toil
And rising up to catch my eye
Have captured me as I passed by.

(message for John of the Curtain)

Chez vous, at this moment
I can't seem to comment
It seems something's broken;
I leave you this token.

Post Facto Advice For Those Driving Near the Missouri River

There's a river floodin'
(Oh my my)
To the west, to the west
(Ain't nuthin' dry)
You had better beware
(Watch the troublin' sky)
'Cause you won't be winnin'
(Don't even try)
Just run away, child
(Turn and fly)

A Strange Moment

It's just the boy, the dogs, the cat
And me.
Nobody else is home, no one,
You see.
And every last one of us looking
At the door.
People are missing, gone somewhere.
What for?
And why is that so doggone strange?

Absence
Is a presence, heavy and thick.
Weighing
Considerably more than you'd think.
All of us
Feeling what isn't even here.
Not knowing
Why the moment is queer.

On Being a Dad

Daaden Aaden is my name.
I'm a father; that's my game.
I've a Hun I'm tryin' to tame.
Daaden Aaden is my name.

He crawls round and touches things,
Grabs at glasses and earrings,
Gives a shout and then he sings
He crawls round and collects bling.

He sees pups and gives a cry!
"Save me from the monster guys!"
Touching them would not be wise.
Least that's what I would surmise.

Daaden Aaden is my name.
I've a son I'm tryin' to tame.
Teaching Right, that is my game.
Daaden Aaden is my name.

Bacon Is Pretty Much the Crux of It

Drivin' through Macon,
But I've got no bacon!
If I were a bandit,
I sure would be takin'
The aforementioned bacon
From stores found in Macon.

What Might Have Been

Juan, Pablo, Ringo,
If they were Spaniards
With Jorge a-strummin'
Would have been great!
Escarabajos!
Ed Sullivan madness!
Can't buy me fiction
E'en though it'd be great.

My Day

Going to the chapel
And I'm officiating.

Going to the chapel

And I'm officiating.

Gee I'm really happy

Cause they're gonna get married.

Going to the chapel of love.

Fine Whiner

In reaction to a previous poem my wife called me a whiner.  This hurt my feelings greatly and so, after complaining a bit, I wrote this supposedly autobiographical poem in the third person singular.  Take take, wife. 

If you like, he can whine for hours,
Casting a critical glance on every last thing,
And summoning Midas-like powers,
Disparage them all exhaustively.  He's the king
Of turning upstanding milk sour.
Give him some random meteorological thing...
And moping shall result!  All dour
He will say, "This darn warm/cold/wet/dry/windy fling!"
Oy, what a whiny, windy bore.

i-fruit

Like a large, flat Tic Tac
With an apple on top,
Once bitten,  and a cord
Out the side like a tendril.
Cracked open, it glows
Like a pregnant woman.
And on the other half
Square seeds in a row?
With runes or some such.
Surely magical,
Weaving tempting spells.
And my eyes, transfixed
Tapping lightly on the seeds.

Loping

GRAHHHT-zee, MAre-sea,
Donkey-shoon.
Breezy days
Are quite the boon.
Blows the skeeters
Far away.
Keeps the stinkin'
Heat at bay.
Giving thanks
Is what I do
For nice comments.
There.  Thank you.

Ramble

Carpet on carpet,
Like frosting on frosting,
Is just too excessive
For my feet to bear.
Not that my feetsies
Have e'er eaten frosting
I'm just writing blindly;
I really don't care.

The baby is pushing
A chair that's much bigger
Than his little bottom,
But he's keen to dare.

I haven't made coffee
And now I'm just rambling,
Oh goodness, please stop me.
Please, don't grin and stare!

My Printer

The light blinks sometimes and little noises
Peep, pop, and burble; the ink well gurgles,
But nothing ever comes of it.  Ruses
By a dusty old printer.  Impotent.
Like some swingin' guy in a sports car,
"Hey babe," but having no horsepower.
My printer sits and can only hint.
Enough.  This is ridiculous.  Get bent.
That's right.  Let go of the cords and get out.
Your fizzling, tittering plastic's been sent.

Write About Things You Don't Know (Possibilities)

How does one write a fine wedding sermon?
What do you do when you're beset by vermin?
When storm clouds are brooding like doom on the land
Is it better to charge or better to stand?
Where can one go to get sleds in the Spring?
What kind of salad do you think I should bring?

Write About Things You Know

Wafting odors on the air,
Hitting me from everywhere,
From the pig farm down the road
From the baby's rear end load.

Christopher

Once upon a time,
I was spending time with my nephew.
We were hangin', as it were.
And there was this little girl who walked up,
Demurely,
And grabbed my wallet!
She ran away with all haste.
Given my advanced age,
I cried out for my nephew's help.
"Chris, stop her!!

Andrew

My nephew is a boarder
He rides around on wheels.
And when he does a trick on it
The little chiquas squeal.
Then he blushes reddish
And falls flat on his face.
Better not to skate for girls
If y' wanna keep some grace.

The Dark Side of the Lawn

When squirrels run rampant
All over the lawn,
Those gray mafiosi
All under the don
Who tells them to kneecap
The chipmunks and birds,
Directs them to fill up
Their nests with cow turds;
Then goodness is dormant
And sunshine is gone,
Cursed by the greed
Of the mafia don,
That nasty old squirrel
Who rules over the lawn.

On the Nature of Attaining to Poetic Excellence

To write a good poem is magic.

To craft a fine verse is a joy.

Well chosen rhymes in a meter that flows

Are... dagnabbit... like low fat soy?

I'll always be glad for my wisdom

In setting the bar on the ground.

For very poor poems 'bout nuthin' at all

Are the only ones, bless 'em, I've found.

After Dinner Poetry (an idea whose time has come)

I cooked you dinner.
It won't make you thinner.
I think it's a winner.
Give me props or I'll kick you in the shinner.

writer and cook: Tiger Lily
last line written by WBP

Curtains

There's a curtain of rough, tan fabric,
Just beyond the screen, shielding the sun,
Shot through with darker thread for texture,
Two pieces, but drawn together as one.
No one could ever make a dress
Of such a thing as this.  Too rough,
No delicacy. No floral print. 
Just rugged, brown, sun-cutting stuff.

Classics of Poetry

I think that it would be nice to feature some classic poems here every once in awhile.  It should help all us appreciate some of the finer aspects of verse to which I just can't attain.  We'll start with a modern classic by my wife.  It is a snappy couplet, strong on brevity and unvarnished honesty.

Holy crap.

I need a nap.

Join us next time on Classics of Poetry when we will savor the beauty of Wordsworth.

Upon Reflection

I was going through old CDs and they sure can bring back memories.  The one that I'm listening to right now (and which inspires this poem) is Green Day's American Idiot.  One of the things that I remember is how much I identified with it all, thinking it authentic, if not exactly wise.  I think you'll find it terrible.  The  poem, the lifestyle, the worldview.  Just utter crap.  (The music is still enticing, though.)

A thumping drum,

A sucking thumb,

A coke and rum.

There.  You're a bum.

Noodlings on Sight and Necessity

What a foolish bird it is
Who flies into the window pane!
He breaks his neck for want of care
He ends his life for lack of brain.

Or is really quite so neat?
Is 'foolish' really 'lack of sight'?
The thing that killed him wasn't there
Until the bruise brought on the night.

He was winging as his wont
Bound to fly within his ease
Hurtling t'wards an end of ends
As surely's from a dread disease.

Thoughts on a Funeral Day

In the grave we lay her down
Beside her husband and her child;
It's been so many years since last
This earth was turned for welcoming.

The child went first at just one day,
A boy who knew not dad nor mom.
His dad came first and now today
His mother comes at last to say,
"I've missed you all these years and cry
Never having seen your smile.
But tears today are full of joy
For finally I meet my child."

Just a Thought

I wanna have a baby
Wanna name her Jack,
Take that baby all around
Both yonder and back,
Dress her up in pigtails
And a pair of bibs,
Teach her all 'bout honor,
Not to tell no fibs.
We'll both shoot some squirrels
With our BB gun
And then we'll eat fried chicken
Til we weigh a ton.

Jungle Wine

The fruit of the vine is the grape.
The beast of the jungle, the ape.
Thus, jungle wine
Is served in a stein
And throws you about by the nape.

The Graveyard Next Door

Just east there's a bunch of the dead

Quietly lying in bed.

The dirt is quite firm,

With complimentary worm,

A veritable graveyard Club Med.

The Coffee Cup

A coffee cup
With a stained interior
And dribbles down the side,
With some advertisement or image
Stamped on the side like a tattoo,
This is the substance of the morning hours.
Well, that and the coffee itself, of course.

Elegance never seems a part of it,
Would seem out of place somehow.
The graceful curve of a china cup
Would meet too many clumsy bulls
In those morning hours.
Chips and cracks wouldn't delay.
The fog of it all would cause an accident.

A Tractor

As a little boy

I had a tractor. 

I "thppppppddd" that tractor

'Round the floor

And planted the carpet with seed.

Now in my thirties

I rode in a tractor.

It churned along

And lo and behold

The field was planted with seed.

One day, maybe,

I'll drive a tractor.

I'll steer it with both arms

And keep to the middle of the field

Strewing seed hither and yon
(And not crashing!)

Supper for the Babe and by the Babe

Take a carrot, cut 'er up
Add an apple, "Hey wassup?"
Add some celery and see
You've made dinner handsomely!

Ceilings

Why are ceilings textured?

Who is it that cares?

I'd like to see a smooth one

If anybody dares.

Smooth and painted orange

With yellow polka dots.

Or royal blue with pinstripes?

Depends who calls the shots.

Just the Facts, Ma'am

Bin Laden is dead.
To Allah he's fled.
I'm going to bed.

Let Us Call this Poem, Bacon.

On the eve of the morning all people proclaim,
"Bacon!  All laud the bacon!"
When morning has come and it's time for the game,
"Bacon!  Gimme the bacon!"
When the breakfast is over and the morning chugs on,
"Bacon!  Must needs more bacon!"
If you need some salt meat over which you must fawn,
"Bacon!  You need the bacon!"

The Dark and Gloomy Days of mid-Spring

When the sun plays coy and stays away,
When the clouds are all you get today,
When the misty air and sodden ground,
The all pervasive damp and gray,
When all this mournful litany
Of Weather Channelicity
Starts to wear and grind you down
It's best to just stop.  Drink some tea.
Sing a song about felicity.
Pound your pillow with your knee.
Growl so deep you lose your frown.
And wait for sunshine to be found.

It's a Good Thing This Place Is For Lousy Poems

I am in a funk.
The poems are all junk.
Whaddya think, punk?
"Yer reputation's sunk."

That's not too keen,
But I'm not green.
Don't care if you're mean
Or the poems obscene.

I'll soldier on
Like ol' Ghengis Khan
Destroying verses, man.
That be the plan.

Civilization

The baby farts.  "What?"
Babies know no shame.
Little animals
For us to tame.
Farting is fine
As far as it goes,
But it leaves the baby
With smelly clothes.

Uh-oh

The gears of the car go ka-chunk, ka-chunk,
ka-chunk, ka-chunk,
ka-chunk, ka-chunk.
The gears of the car go ka-chunk, ka-chunk
Every time I drive.

We're taking it to the mechanic.

Monday Thursday?

Confusion reigns at Eastertime
Or just some days before.
The Christians call that Thursday Monday.
I'd call that logic poor.

Earth Day Celebration Extravaganza!

Earth Day is coming
I've got to prepare!
Never mind fire.
Never mind air.
Never mind water.
I want to be clear.
They just don't matter;
It's earth that is dear!
So burn down the forests;
Dump crap in the sea;
Fill in the wetlands
With dirt, you see!
Gravel is lovely
And worthy of praise.
I'll roll on the ground
For the rest of my days.

(Just for the record, environmental degradation is bad.  I don't actually support destroying the earth.  I do, however, support poking fun at environmentalists.  Also, this post is not meant to a nuanced argument of any sort.  It is a lousy poem based on two meanings of the word "earth."  Also, the earth doesn't need a special day.  Unless you want to celebrate its birthday.  Would that be creationist?  It's all very confusing.  This is why I just write lousy poems.  They are easier than trying to explain yourself to people with wide-ranging assumptions.)

Marriage Traditions (with grammatical hitch in its giddyup)

Something old,
Something new,
Something borrowed,
Something blue,
With a shotgun,
By and by,
Lets get married,
You and I.

Absolute Gibberish

Carpet or linoleum?
Synthesis or pure?
Would you rather be John Glenn
Or that old guy John Muir?
Gravel roads or black top?
Well done steak or rare?
What is better for your heart
Love or the state fair?
All these silly questions
Posed without a thought.
Sometimes wonder slaps my head
And says, "What have you wrought?

Weather

The wet and the wind
Are like Scotland these days;
I'm hoping the chill
Is but a short phase.

The Electric Toothbrush

It turns; oh it whirls!
It attracts all the girls
'Cause my teeth get so white;
I'm forced to take flight!

Birdsong

What sweet songs enliven
The air out my window
When only I open
And let that air in.

My window's a lever
That calls forth by magic
A soundtrack of nature
By medium of wind.

Dulcet and friendly,
A soft invitation,
A kindly reminder
To let loose and grin.

Will Durant

Will Durant was talking one day
Bout ancient folk who have gone away,
Propounding his philosophay
Dearest Will, I don't buy what you say.

Will Durant wrote the epic "Story of Civilization in eleven volumes.  I first saw it at my grandparents home and was taken in by it.  Having no hope to inherit, I pieced together the volumes over a few years and now enjoy it in my own home.  I once thought history was simply recorded fact.  In reading Durant again I am reminded of how much of it is simply opinion.  Very interesting in any event.

Buy-ku

Good books grow on trees,
In a manner of speaking.
I shall buy them all.

...At Least I Hope Not

There's a man on a tractor
Who's out in the field
Spreading some odor
To increase his yield.
The smell in the wind
Is approaching eleven.
It ain't quite the smell
We'll be smelling in heaven.

Shots

The baby got a stick today
Right there above his knees,
Purportedly to keep him safe
From sickness and disease.
He cried out loud with clear disgust,
"Et tu Brute? You slug!"
But he's just fine and later on
No doubt he'll eat a bug.

The Challenge of the Day

When I have a cup of coffee in the morning
Just as rays begin to make their way
Through the slats of my venetian kitchen,
Or at least the blinds are I-Tie anyway,
I ponder things that I will soon be doing
And hope that they will turn out for the best.
I'll make my way through every bloomin' challenge
And collapse in bed by midnight to get rest.

Pining for Summer

The county fair isn't for ages, but something has me in a mind for it.

Are you going to the county fair?
Ice cream, corn, some piggies and sheep?
Remember cash with which to get fat.
Vittles are a true love of mine.

Ioway

The rolling hills of Ioway
Are likely for awhile to stay
Til soil erosion wipes away
The rolling hills of Ioway.

The corn in fields of Ioway
Is never ever going to stay
'Cause pigs and folks will eat one day
The corn in fields of Ioway.

Fly Tape (a reflection in brief prose)

We once visited a farm. 
The farm had flies. 
Many, many flies. 
I blame the cows. 
And their... you know. 
We had had enough. 
We bought fly tape. 
And hung it. 
The flies were curious. 
"What is this hanging thing? 
Sure smells good!" 
And they landed. 
Big mistake. 
"We are stuck!"
Yes, they were stuck.
Tape is sticky.
My cousin was there.
He and I counted the flies.
Their misfortune was fun.
It's okay.
They were only flies.